1998 L.A. Times Magazine Article "Big Evil's Ride to Death Row"

Police Attribute More Than 20 Murders to Cleamon Johnson, a Guy You've Probably Never Heard of. His Victims Were Innocents Trying to Survive or Gang Kids in Over Their Heads.

November 29, 1998

In these days of support groups, Violet Loggins could start a large one for people whose husbands, sons, brothers, daughters or friends were murdered by one man. Loggins' own mourning began seven years ago. Her husband, Donald Ray Loggins, worked at a local cable company, and since the birth of their son five months earlier, he had been as punctual as a Marine Corps reveille. He would pull into the driveway of their pleasant two-bedroom, South-Central Los Angeles home at 2:45 p.m. to watch the baby while Violet got ready for her swing-shift job. But on Aug. 5, 1991, Violet was sitting on the couch, cradling their child and staring at the telephone, wondering why her husband was so late.

Had Violet been outside at about 2:30 p.m., she would have heard distant gunshots, the sound of an Uzi being fired into the skulls of her 30-year-old husband and his friend, Payton Beroit, as they waited at a carwash on 88th Street and Central Avenue. It was the sound that symbolized the reign of terror of street gang leader Cleamon Johnson, who authorities say ordered the murders as he sat 100 feet from the carwash on the porch of his parents' home, his throne.

Loggins and his friend were killed because they lived east of Central Avenue, a dividing line between Crips and Bloods. Evil says neither was a gang member, but Johnson, seeking to provide a newly recruited Blood with a mission to earn his stripes, spotted them and issued their death sentences.

"He tore my family apart," says Loggins. "My husband was one of the good guys. He was always doing favors for people. Now I'm bringing up a child without a father . . . . All I have for my son are pictures. What do I tell him?"

Few of the loved ones of Johnson's victims, Violet Loggins among them, know the real name of the man who ruined their lives. But their eyes dart about nervously and anger distorts their faces at the mention of his street name.

This is the story of how a sweet young boy named Cleamon Johnson grew up to be "Big Evil."

*

By the early 1990s, the neighborhood controlled by the 89 family Bloods, Big Evil's neighborhood, was among the deadliest in California. In 1993 alone, there were 12 murders in the gang's half-square-mile turf. If all of Los Angeles had such a rate, there would have been 22,512 murders in the city, 4,635 more than in the entire United States last year. Big Evil was not responsible for all the mayhem, of course. But in a city with 100,000 gang members, he stood out.

"Every gang has a bad ass, a shot-caller," says LAPD Homicide Det.

Rosemary Sanchez. "Evil was the most violent one I ever knew about."

FBI Agent Jon Lipsky says only famed Mafia killer Anthony "Tony the Ant" Spilotro was as violent. "Johnson has admitted to 13 murders by his own hands. That makes him a serial killer."

In total, police attribute more than 20 murders to Johnson. But even using the lower figure to which Johnson has confessed, that means he murdered as many people as "Freeway Killer" William Bonin or "Night Stalker" Richard Ramirez. In all likelihood, Evil's relative obscurity has to do with where the slaughter occurred. No celebrities among these victims. No Palos Verdes bankers or Newport Beach realtors. These were innocents just trying to survive, or young gang members in way over their heads. Johnson's defense tried to portray him as a victim of geography. "Evil is a product of 89th and Central," said Joe Orr, counsel for Johnson's co-defendant, Michael "Fat Rat" Allen. "With his charm, there's no telling how far he could have gone. He was talented, but his abilities were diverted to the streets. If he had been raised in a different area, this would not have happened."

His own mother, however, can't believe it's that simple. After a jury sentenced Johnson to death for Loggins' and Beroit's murders, she pondered her personal version of the question that has kept sociologists and criminologists and theologians bickering for decades. What makes a boy go bad? "I feel I gave him my all. I just don't know what happened. Sometimes I feel I am to blame, but I did all a mother could do. I don't know why it turned out like this."

*

Cleamon Demone Johnson was born on Oct. 15, 1967, in Los Angeles. He had what many hard-core cases dream of--two loving parents. Aileen and Cleamon Johnson raised their son in a three-bedroom home on 88th Street. The white house had a large porch and a big backyard, complete with a pigeon coop that served as a playground for Cleamon, his two older half brothers, two younger brothers and a boisterous bunch of neighborhood boys. Norman Rockwell could have painted that scene, or the summer afternoons when Aileen gave her sons and their friends Kool-Aid and sometimes invited the neighbor boys to dinner, at which the family of seven said grace before eating.

Neighbors remember Cleamon as a sweet child with a big smile and an eagerness to help ladies bring groceries from their cars. He'd scan the bags, grab the most overflowing and wobble toward the porch, peering through the leafy contents to avoid curbs and steps. As a member of Boy Scout Troop 374, he earned many merit badges, including one he is still proud of: Survival. Like all boys with brothers, Cleamon learned to roughhouse from an early age, to fight back when the older boys slugged him, and to fight back tears when the punches hurt.

That was a time when South-Central's gangs still fought with fists, an occasional tire iron, a rare knife, and street trouble seldom spilled into homes. No one had yet heard the rumblings of an Uzi or AK-47 here. But in 1970, when Cleamon Johnson was 3, an epochal event occurred: Less than a mile away, some young men got together and started calling themselves the Crips. Things in South-Central would never be the same. Enter the era of families routinely ducking for cover, of sleeping on floors, of burying babies. Soon the "The City of Angels" was better known as the "Gang Capital of America."

In response to the Crips, various groups of young men and boys from rival gangs--the Piru, the Bounty Hunters, the Brims and the Swans--banded together into a loose confederation that became known as the Bloods. Over time, large, well-armed Crips factions--East Coast Crips, Avalon Gardens Crips and, directly across Central Avenue, the Kitchen Crips--hemmed in Johnson's neighborhood on three sides. That embattled horseshoe engendered the 89 Family Bloods.

One sweltering afternoon, when Johnson was 8, he was sitting on a fire hydrant at 84th and Towne when a car drove up. Teenagers got out and opened fire, shredding the body of his friend Darryl. It was Johnson's first numbing, close-up view of death. Within a year he saw another boy murdered. Violence became part the backdrop, like the sound of jets descending toward LAX. Soon Johnson was caught up in it.

When word got home that he'd been fighting, Cleamon Johnson knew what to expect: "An ass-whipping." But he doesn't begrudge his parents their attempts at discipline. He says he enjoyed his childhood, and by all accounts, even during this time of schoolyard fistfights, he remained a good student, a curious, intelligent boy with a certain charm and bright smile. Cleamon's parents took him and his brothers camping throughout the West. They understood the advantages such experiences offered, and because they sympathized with the children who came from broken homes, they often took along some of the pigeon coop boys. Cleamon was particularly fond of Oregon's Crater Lake, a tree-sheltered pool of serenity atop a dormant volcano.

Though far from rich, the Johnsons spoiled their boys. At Christmas, when other kids received roller skakes, the Johnson boys got go-karts. What they couldn't give them was immunity to the forces transforming the city. By the time he was 12 or 13, attending Drew Middle School near Watts, Cleamon was encountering young Crips hourly.

It was there, in the seventh grade, that he first tasted the thrill of being a bad ass. A larger and older Kitchen Crip had been bullying some youngsters. Johnson charged the boy, got the upper hand, and kept on going, smashing the boy's face into a basketball pole until blood spurted onto the court. From then on, the other boys looked up to him. So did some of the girls. Nearly two decades before he received the death penalty, the battle for his life had begun.

From that point on, Johnson's family found itself in a tug of war with the 89 Family. His parents dug in, pulling steadily; the gang yanked with adrenaline-filled spasms on the other side. The family pulled with love. The gang with power and fear. The gang won.

Johnson graduated to hanging with older, hard-core men, many of them ex-convicts. They were glad to have him on their side. "Evil was a great street fighter," says Ricky Parker, Johnson's half brother. "He was good with his hands, his elbows, his head, his feet, his knees, his teeth."

"He could really get down with his hands," says a rival Kitchen Crip, one street fighter appreciating another. "It takes more than a gun to get respect." Yet in this new Wild West, most gang members came to see a gun as survival gear. By the late 1970s, even the best street fighters had turned to firepower. Evil became as unfazed by shooting people as he had been at stomping their teeth in. From the most ruthless family members, Evil created a commando unit of sorts, which he called the 88 Monsters. Though he still lived with and respected his parents, on the street his rage would flow. Defending his outgunned 'hood became an obsession.

"When his anger goes off, it is a something to check out, blood," said a member of the Swans. "It was scary. He be getting like a hurricane, and you can't stop him when he want to jack up someone. You know that he ain't just talking, like so many other brothers. If he said it, I would say to myself, 'Someone gonna die tonight.' "

*

Thanks, in part, to Evil, the LAPD and the District Atorney's hard Core Gang Unit came to view the 89 Family as the deadliest small gang in the city. "Part of the reason they were so violent was that they were surrounded by much larger gangs on three sides," says South Bureau Homicide Det. Christopher Barling, who testified as a gang expert in the murder trial. "To keep their little territory, 89 had to fight harder."

Det. Thomas Mathew calls Johnson "the most cold-blooded killer in the city," and sees himself as Evil's nemesis. One of the gang's traits, he says, was their turnaround time when it came to a retaliation shooting. "They were notorious for quick paybacks. Whenever we heard there had been shooting [on 89 Family turf], we would rush over to the rival's turf and wait for them to come by. Sometimes they had already given the payback."

But Evil wasn't just fast. He was a street strategist, detectives say.

"Most gang members are reactionary, heat of passion," says Barling. "You shoot us, we shoot you. Evil was different. Evil would think and plan things out." He built a reputation for beating murder raps and for allegedly calling in several murders from behind bars. He even ordered the assassination of Mathew. For a time, an LAPD SWAT team shadowed the detective to counter the threat.

Evil's crimes, meanwhile, were becoming street folklore. Barling recalls a 1991 assault on the Avalon Gardens housing project that Crips, Bloods and cops still talk about. "Evil had his guys do two other shootings just to get police away from Avalon Gardens," he says. "He had guys in stolen cars waiting as getaway drivers. He had guys going into [the project] on the flanks. Then he led 10 of them--walking--into the middle of the project and fired off more than 200 rounds. It was lucky only one person died."

Such tactics do not go unnoticed. In 1994, LAPD's South Bureau homicide squad organized an 89 Family Task Force, consisting of detectives, FBI agents and the district attorney's office. Their goal: bring down Evil for good. To succeed, however, the task force needed something authorities had always failed to get--witnesses who would take the stand. Many times Evil had been arrested as the prime suspect in a murder case and many times he had walked. His myth grew as word spread that he was untouchable. "How many times you gonna get arrested for murder then get out right away?" asks the former girlfriend of an 88 Monster. "Everyone in the neighborhood was talking about it. He gonna get out and kill you if you ratted on him. It was really simple."

In 1994, Gloria Lyons told authorities that she saw an 89 Family member kill a man. She was killed. Georgia Denise Jones testified in the same case. She was killed. Two years earlier, Albert Sutton was due to testify in a murder trial. He was killed. But in developing evidence in the Loggins and Beroit murders, detectives latched onto a witness, Freddie Jelks, who was facing life in prison for a murder. During the Loggins-Beroit murder trial, Jelks said that Evil had ordered the killings. The jury voted to convict and sent Johnson to San Quentin's death row. Now he's in the Pitchess Detention Center in Saugus preparing to represent himself in yet another murder trial in January.

*

Big Evil receives a visitor from behind the thick glass window of a small metal cage that his 6-foot-2, 220-pound fat-free frame fills to capacity. These are the visitation arrangements the sheriffs reserve for their most explosive charges.

It is not the man's menace that strikes you, though, or the bulging biceps, or his shaved head and piercing eyes. It's Big Evil's engaging smile.

"He was so nice," says Sanchez, the homicide detective, recalling her first street encounter with the gangster. Sanchez, a 17-year veteran who had heard the fearsome tales about Johnson, was taken aback by his personality. "He had this big smile. He joked with us. And that laugh. That Big Evil laugh. It was . . . well, it was really evil. I'm happy we finally brought him down."

Johnson smiles when he hears that Sanchez is glad he got convicted. His laugh rises in volume like a tsunami about to devastate a fishing village. "I think she's mad at me because I wouldn't give her any," he says. "She was listening to me talk nasty to my wife [on a bugged county jail phone], and she was getting turned on."

Sometimes , even when he's laughing, it's hard to tell if Johnson is joking. At the time of this interview, for instance, he was a trustee at the Men's Central Jail. His job: food server. "No one complains about the service," says Johnson. "That would be dumb."

Ask him, though, what life is like now for a man who has deprived so many people of theirs, and the laughter stops. "I'm not really fond of life," he says. "It seems like I'm already dead. I ain't never been one that depends on hope."

Ask him to tally how many deaths he has meted out, and his gaze becomes a glare. "That's another story. That's a whole long story," he says. He pauses. Then he lowers his head and cocks it to one side, and suddenly he's back 23 years and is talking about that boy who sat on a fire hydrant and watched his first killing. Listen to Evil now, and you can almost begin to see things from his severely contorted, Boy Scout-turned-killer's perspective. You can almost see how, in the twisted realm of certain neighborhoods, where a parent's tender hug is counterbalanced by some tough's shove, a boy's thinking could go so haywire.

In a way, Johnson was cursed with the rare qualities it takes to transcend the fear that can cripple such neighborhoods, that leaves many inhabitants half-dead with dread. He had that athletic body, wicked knockout punch and the drive to fight back ferociously. In the end, perhaps, the gang won out because to Johnson, love was no longer as vital as power.

And he loved that power.

Most boys at some point in their lives fantasize about being the baddest street fighter, about taking down bullies while girls ogle from ringside seats on the curb. Johnson's parents and lawyers, the judge and the jury that convicted him, might not be so perplexed about his fate had they ever felt the addictive rush of walking into a party with a reputation that paralyzes the room, of having brutal men turn to you for protection, of hearing tales of your ruthlessness grow into legend.

From his perspective, love never stood a chance. And once Johnson was off on that alternative course, he threw himself into it with all his heart.

"I was the epitome of a gang member," he says. "I was real. A lot of people be putting on a front that they bad. Acting tough. I wasn't acting at all. I was just being me. I love to fight. Win, lose or draw. I'd rather put down a gun and fight. I fight to win. If you got to bite, bite. If you got to scratch, scratch . . . . People fail to realize, it was like a religion. It's not for the fun of it. Some people worshiped Allah or Jesus. I worshiped Bloods.

"It's like people going to Vietnam and getting programmed to kill. They can't stop killing, and when they come back, they need help mentally. We couldn't stop killing our enemies here either. I was one of them sick individuals. They locked us away, but we needed help mentally."

Det. Mathew reflects on Johnson's swift transition from boy to out-of-control killer. "He used to come up and ask me for baseball cards. Two months later, we're looking for him on a murder. Did I have any baseball cards for him? Hell, no. I got handcuffs for him, that's all."

With Big Evil sentenced to death, and other key 89 Family members locked away, murders have plummeted in the area. Still, the legacy of the neighborhood that Evil helped create--that helped create Evil--lives on.

Johnson seems unconcerned that he is headed for death row. "I'm not worried at all about going to San Quentin," he says. "I been in worse places."

Such as?

"In an alley, with a .45 pointed at me. Too many times. But I'm a survivor. I just turned 30. I never thought I'd make it to 20. After I got the death penalty, I celebrated in jail with some homemade brew. I know I'm gonna be around at least 10 more years with all the appeals. Getting the death penalty saved my life."

http://articles.latimes.com/print/1998/nov/29/magazine/tm-48648

1997 L.A. Times Article "Big Evil's Reign Appears Over For Good"

October 01, 1997 

Cleamon "Big Evil" Johnson is the "most cold-blooded killer in the entire city," by one detective's estimate.

"He's the type of guy you can have an interesting, articulate conversation with--laugh with, joke with," said homicide Det. Thomas Mathew of the Los Angeles Police Department. "He'd be cool to you. And then you turn your back on him, and he'd blow your brains out."

Johnson, 29, known as a shot-caller in one of the city's most notorious street gangs, once put out a contract on Mathew, the detective said. LAPD brass were concerned enough to have SWAT officers tag along with the detective.

"Even before the contract, I was always very aware whenever I was with Evil to be careful because I knew he would do me in a second," Mathew said. "He has beat us on so many cases, because no witnesses want to come forward."

Two witnesses did come forward in 1994 to testify against members of Johnson's gang, the 89 Family Bloods. They were both killed.

But Johnson's winning streak skidded to a halt after prosecutors were able to penetrate his protective cloak of silence with three witnesses who testified to his involvement in the 1991 murders of two rival gang members.

Johnson and a co-defendant, 25-year-old Michael "Fat Rat" Allen--already serving 35 years to life for another murder--were found guilty Sept. 2.

A jury recommended Tuesday that they be put to death.

As the clerk in Los Angeles Superior Court Judge Charles Horon's courtroom said the word "death," the two men sat expressionless. So did Johnson's parents and Allen's wife, sitting in the spectator section. Horon has scheduled sentencing for Dec. 12.

Prosecutors contend that Johnson gave Allen an Uzi and ordered him to kill the rival gang members. Allen gunned the two men down before dozens of witnesses, they say.

But during the initial 1991 investigation, no one would admit having seen the shooting. The reason was simple: Testify against Big Evil, he'll kill you, police say.

"I can't even tell you the way he kills without any kind of emotion," Mathew said of Johnson. "It's unbelievable. And he has this scary laugh. He personifies the term 'evil.' He would make a good candidate for an FBI behavioral profile. I'd like to see what some psychiatrist says about his mind."

Authorities say the 80 members of Johnson's gang are responsible for more than 60 slayings in the last decade. There were 32 killings on the gang's turf--a quarter of a square mile--between 1993 and last year--a homicide rate nine times higher than the city's at large.

The gang claims an area bounded by Central and Manchester avenues, Avalon Boulevard and 92nd Street.

Police say they conservatively estimate that Johnson has committed 12 murders. A police task force on the gang has put many members behind bars--including Johnson, who once served three years on drug charges. But Johnson's orders have penetrated prison walls, directing underlings to kill for him, authorities said.

*

A statement Johnson gave to police before his trial summed up his philosophy:

"I don't answer to nobody. What I do is what I want to do and when I want to do it."

The case that led to Tuesday's death penalty recommendation was revived this year after prosecutors found three witnesses willing to talk. A source close to the investigation said the three were in custody facing criminal charges of their own.

A key prosecution witness, Freddie Jelks, is a member of Johnson's 89 Family and is awaiting trial in another slaying. His co-defendant is Johnson.

Jelks said he saw Johnson give Allen the Uzi used to kill Donald Ray Loggins and Payton Beroit on Aug. 5, 1991.

Johnson "terrorizes the neighborhood because he can, and he enjoys it," Deputy Dist. Atty. Jennifer Lentz Snyder said in her closing argument.

Several residents along East 88th Street just west of Central, where Johnson grew up, painted a different portrait.

"No one on this block would say a bad word about Evil," said Bessie Dunn, 42, who has lived in the neighborhood for 20 years. "He was that type of guy that if you had a bunch of groceries in the car, he'd help you unload them."

Mathew said no one in the neighborhood dares say anything bad about Johnson.

A neighborhood teenager, who would identify himself only as Ya Ya, recalled when his mother's purse was stolen and she reported it to Johnson. Within an hour, the purse was back, he said.

*

However, even those who talk fondly of Johnson and Allen still admit that their mere presence caused problems.

"We'd have to hit the ground about four times a week with all the shootings," said a woman who requested anonymity. "But as far as [Johnson] and Michael, they were nice guys. I never saw them get ugly. They call them monsters, but I don't know that part of them."

Prosecutor Snyder described Johnson and Allen as predators and played an audiotape for the jury of a telephone conversation between Johnson and a fellow gang member. On the tape, Johnson ordered the killing of Mathew, prosecutors said.

"The most chilling moment of the tape," Snyder said, came when Johnson mimicked how Mathew would react.

"He's gonna be saying, 'Why me? Why me?,' " Johnson is heard remarking. That comment is followed by what another listener described as a "maniacal, bone-chilling laugh."

Mathew said Johnson wasn't shy about his role in killings.

"He would brag to me about killing people, say it right to my face," said the detective, who worked for eight years in the LAPD's gang unit.

*

Johnson's is not the case of a young man who turned to gangs because of a broken home life, Snyder said. His parents were in court every day. They refused to comment on their son other than to ask: "Why does the press print those lies about him?"

On 88th Street, Johnson's older half brother, Ricky Parker, was eager to talk.

Johnson got into gangs early and worked his way up in the neighborhood surrounded on three sides by rival Crips sets.

"Evil was a great street fighter," Parker said.

Parker said part of the problem that led to Big Evil's downfall was his fearsome moniker that tempted the police to try to bring him down.

"I always told him to get rid of that nickname," Parker said.

http://articles.latimes.com/print/1997/oct/01/local/me-38056

 

"Nut" From Main Street Gunned Down Monday Morning

"Nut", a member of the Main Street Crips who was shot and killed Monday morning shortly after 9 a.m., was praised by local residents with so many glowing superlatives I had to stop twice and ask "We still talking about Nut here, right?"

Nut's name was Tijuan Folks, and he was 29. I didn't know Nut, but half dozen people praised him as a friend and neighbor. What will come out later from the authorities point of view, who knows. LAPD detectives on scene when I arrived didn't have anything to say, though one confirmed Folks was from Main Street.

The photo below is Folks trying to look hard, a friend said, But, he was, according to several other friends, "a good, All-American family man, who was positive. Humble. Generous. Would give his last to a neighbor or friend. Prolly even to a stranger."

Folks was struck as he either sat or stood near a burgundy sedan this morning. The shooting death heightened fears the ongoing street war between the Main Street Crips and Hoover Street Criminals would intensify. (See links below) In March, shootings connected to the two large gangs left at least two dead and several wounded. Douglas Wooley, 28 was shot a block away from where Nut died today.  Near 82nd and Hoover Street, three hours after Wooley died, Christopher Wayne Richardson, 22, was shot. He died of his wounds two weeks later.

Back on 98th Street, a woman who has lived on the block for 24 years was stunned by Nut's death.

"I am scared to let my kids play outside," said Vera Brooks, who agreed that when outsiders hear of "98th and Main Street" they assume there are killing here weekly. "The thing is, this is the first killing on my block that I know about, at least, in 24 years."

Her daughter, Shera Hill, stood and stared at the burgundy car were her friend died. "Nut was a good guy. Very polite, Never bother anyone. And always, always stylish. If he had on a turquoise shirt, he'd have on turquoise pants.  If he had on blue shirt, he'd have on blue shoes.  Yeah, Nut was put together."

http://krikorianwrites.com/blog/2014/3/7/71qr762ua9cb0gbv3auv67id1gwk4t

http://krikorianwrites.com/blog/2014/3/11/lapd-tactics-working-no-hoover-vs-main-street-paybacks

http://krikorianwrites.com/blog/2014/3/20/hoover-street-shooting-victim-dies

lridngto victim was anEarthling.

you woulld have thought his road to sainthood is all but assured. 

City of Los Angeles Proclaims May 30th "Nancy Silverton Day"

The City of Los Angeles officially proclaimed today, May 30th to be "Nancy Silverton Day", capping off a storybook month that began when she won the James Beard Foundation Award four weeks ago for Outstanding Chef in the United States.

The declaration, at the end of a very long City Council meeting,  was  presented to Silverton by Councilman Paul Koretz, who  - along with Councilmembers Ton LaBonge and Herb J. Wesson, Jr. -  lavished so many superlatives on the revered Mozza owner an outsider would have thought she had solved the traffic problem in town.

Silverton, as always, cool and sharp, in sunglasses and Marni, took the award and thanked her co-workers at Mozzas in Los Angeles, Newport Beach, Singapore, Stalingrad, and San Diego, as well as Chi Spacca.

"There are hundreds of people who help me everyday, working hard to hopefully make your day a better day," said Silverton, who was accompanied by her father, Larry, and her driver, Juan Manuel Fangio, who sped to the nearest trademark office to register that quote.

"i'm really honored to get this "Day" because it recognizes what an important industry I belong to," said Nancy, who, only two weeks ago, in a worldwide poll, came in 2nd place to Muhammad Ali as the most beloved person living on Earth. "The restaurant industry provides jobs to thousands and thousands of people. The joy of people have in eating our food, well, it's important to the spirit and life of our city."

Yeah, everybody, it's officially Nancy Silverton Day!  For me, that's just about everyday.

365

Hector Lopez, Inventor of Term "SHAOOUU!", Retires From Mozza

After seven and half years, Hector Lopez,  one of the original team members of Osteria Mozza, will suit up for the last time tonight as he retires after a mysterious career that had most fellow workers wondering the same thing: "Just what did Hector actually do here, other than be happy?"

"Hector is a joy to be around, and I love his saying, that Shaoouuu!  thing," said Mozza chef and owner Nancy Silverton. "i'm kinda busy, but, just remind me.  What did he do here?"

A Mozza chef, Derek McCabe, was stunned to hear that today (Tuesday 5/27) would be Hector's last day.

"I thought he left a month ago," McCabe said in a text message to Krikorian Writes.

Lopez. from the city of Orizaha in the Mexican state of Vera Cruz. is perhaps best known for his jubilant proclamation of "SHAOOUUU!" ( CHAOOUUUUUUA! in Spanish, XIAOOOONNNGGG! in Mandarin) the meaning of which Lopez explained Monday night: "It's when something really wonderful happens or you see something really beautiful."

Lopez eagerly posed with fellow Mozza employees Monday night including Julianne Moore and Matt Michaelson, another original Mozza employee, who was also perplexed when asked what Hector did.

"I know he stood next to Tono and Adriel quite a lot," said Michaelson, clearly uncomfortable with the question  "Look, I need to go carve a giant bookcase."  

Michaelson's girlfriend, Alisa Burket, aka here as "Helen", who was often the inspiration for Lopez's Shaooouus!"s, said there is evidence Lopez did NOT do actual work at Mozza. 

"Look at his hands," she said. "His hands are so soft and smooth. What work could he possibly do and still keep so soft?"

Whatever he did at Mozza, Hector did so with a lot of enthusiasm and happiness. And when sadness came his way - and it did - the staff knew because there were no "Shaooouus' to be heard.

So Lopez is moving on, on  to work as a bartender at Los Balcones Del Peru, the Peruvian restaurant on Vine Street near Sunset Boulevard. He is also taking English as a second language at Evans Community Adult School, an enrollment applauded by former Mozza General Manager David Rosoff. 

"Seven years I knew Hector and his English never improved," said Rosoff, who added he kind of admired - or at least was baffled by  - Hector's state of being. "He only had two states; "super hyper" and "downright dangerously hyper." 

So Hector Lopez will be missed at Mozza . For different reasons.

"Who is going to walk me to my car?' wondered pastry chef Dahlia Narvaez.

"Who is gong to have the best manicured eyebrows at Mozza now?" asked former Mozza chef de Cuisine Chris Feldmeier.

"Who is gong to hit on me at work if  Hector's not there," pondered Osteria cook Rebecca Pizzala.

Michael Krikorian (relation), said he took a liking to Hector many years ago in the parking lot when he asked Hector "Do you know why I call you the 'Prince of Troy'?".

"Of course, Papa," Hector said with that sincere trademark smile of his. "Because Hector was the PrInce of Troy, I read. I know history, Papa."

Hector and Professor Wood

Hector and Julie Moore

U.S. Deploys Secret Ice Cream Tactics in Hunt For Warlord Kony

In the daunting hunt for Ugandan warlord Joseph Kony, United States Special Operations Forces have begun using an experimental "distraction device" that Krikorian Writes has learned is a highly secretive ice cream/gelato blend being developed in Southern California.

The ice cream, known only as the "P 1", is the creation of Los Angeles-based Mozza chefs Nancy Silverton and Dahlia Narvaez and, after extensive testing, is being deployed by American Special Forces - including Green Beret, Delta Force and Navy SEALs -  in the hunt for Kony. That hunt appears near a showdown as Kony's weakened Lord Resistance Army, (LRA), which spread hell for years throughout Uganda and the Central African Republic, is on the run. Earlier this week, in a sign of his fading authority, Kony elevated his son, Salim Saleh,  to the number 2 position in the LRA, according to a May 20 Associated Press report. ( http://www.cbsnews.com/news/joseph-kony-hands-over-reins-of-lra-to-son-official-says/).

Kony, 53, is believed to be moving from the Central Africa Republic to Kafia Kingi, a disputed enclave of South Sudan also claimed by regular Sudan.

A military source said Joseph Kony's capture is "imminent", but would not elaborate on how long "imminent" actually is, though he did divulge it was shorter time period than "soon".  

The source - and two others - did confirm the use of the P 1 weapon has been "very effective and a big part in the capture of many outlaws."

A Delta operative explained how the P 1's role is made operational. Turns out, it's quite simple 

"It's basically the old classic "Here! Look at this" game, a distraction," said the Delta operator who spoke on the condition of anonymity. "So far its been very effective. Once we identify the targets, in this case, Joseph Kony and his Lord's Resistance Army, we set up a forward staging area, and, from there, using locals, we drop a school backpacks near the site we are to hit. After making sure the backpack is not boobie-trapped, the insurgents discover there's ice cream inside and are soon are so caught up in the wonder of the P 1 that their guard is dramatically lowered. That's when we moved in for the assault."

An Army spokesperson, Lt. Col. Duke Feldmeier, was emphatic that no enemy combatants have been killed as a result of this extraordinary tactic.

"Miss Silverton and MIss Narvaez were absolute in their demand that P 1 usage would not lead to anyone's death. And, so far,  there have not been any fatalities associated with P 1 deployment.  They have been a several gun-butted skulls, .at least three dozen broken noses, upwards of 175 blackened eyes,. and assortment of several aches and pains, but no fatalities.

Though little is known of the P 1, sources said it is based on the storied "5 Nods" Salty Peanut Butter gelato, unveiled to the world at Pizzeria Mozza Newport Beach in January.  

In honor of fallen soldiers around the world, a modified version of the P 1 will be available to the public beginning this Memorial Day weekend at Pizzeria Mozza in Los Angeles, Newport Beach and San Diego.  For security reasons, no photos of P 1 will be permitted at the restaurants and no P 1  will be allowed to leave the premises.

Secret Distracting - (Aerial Photo by United States of America Intelligence Services)

Back away, fool

"Delusional" Doug Zamensky Admitted to Mental Hospital

Doug Paul Zamensky, best known as the first human being ever to be robbed by three different species, was admitted Monday  to the Tustin Mental Institute suffering from an assortment of ailments, including CDS, or Complex Delusional Syndrome.

Zamensky was rushed to the institute's Acute Whack Ward after he was seen wondering aimlessly in traffic on Pacific Coast Highway in Newport Beach carrying two portraits of himself - one as an owl - and yelling at passing motorists  "Rembrandt wants to draw me!" and "Oil the Dougsta, Picasso!"

Responding to numerous 911 calls about a "crazy white freak", Orange County sheriff deputies placed the Idaho native on a "5150 Hold", which allows for clinical observation of "seriously numbed individuals" for up to 72 hours. 

Locals were stunned.

"It was sad and shocking to see Doug like that, especially since he seemed so cool when we met him in Vegas," said Debbie Hauser, who works at the McLaren dealership on PCH down the street from Pizzeria Mozza where Zamensky worked as the general manager. "Doug told us "McLaren Girls" he was the chief test pilot for the McLaren P 1 at the Nurburgring [race track in Germany].  One of our girls thought he was a race car driver and asked to see his, his, umm, his paddle shifter.  She had no idea he was a waiter at a pizza joint or whatever he does at Mozza.  It's plain wrong."

Seekling to downplay the Vegas incident, .Alex Munoz-Suarez, the director of operations for Mozza, spoke to the media Monday evening to, in his words "clarify a simple misunderstanding". 

"We were in Vegas, and Doug, he had had a few, and we were with a group of the McLaren Girls and, for some reason, he slurred out that he had a "New burning" in one of his private areas. They mistakenly thought he said "the Nurburgring is testy". 

Seeking to placate the team at the McLaren dealership, Mozza chef Emily Corlis sent over a tray of the pizzeria's popular meatballs. However, that didn't go over too well. "Given  the circumstance, I don't think that was the wisest choice," said car sales manager, Monica Skorsky.

Upon hearing news of his detention, Zamensky's parents in Boise, Idaho were actually relieved. 

"Ever since Douglas went to Los Angeles and started getting robbed and then moved to Newport Beach and started living the big shot life, he hasn't been the same," said Art Zamensky. "Maybe staying in a loony bin for awhile will be good for him."

Zamensky's mother issued a plea to her son. "It's over, Douglas. Please come home."

"Hey, I'm the Dougsta!"

The Lost Corner of Highland and Melrose, aka The Wonderful Life of Nancy Silverton

THE ANNUAL MOZZA CHRISTMAS STORY based on  the  1946 Frank Capra zultra classic movie "It's a Wonderful Life", (screenplay  by Frances Goodrich and Albert Hackett) 

FADE IN

A rumpled man exits a rusty, hubcap-less Ford Econoline van In front of a burnt-out, graffiti splattered, abandoned building at Highland and Melrose, takes a wobbly-stretch and a long, lusty swig from a bottle of Night Train. 

"Is that, is that, is that David?" asks Nancy Silverton incredulously.

 "Yes, that's David Rosoff," says a little man, "The years have not been kind."

This hunched-over Rosoff  - eyes marinated in Popov, unkempt black and grey hair wildly spilling out from the bottom of his tattered Members Only baseball cap, rumpled black sport coat four sizes too big, mismatched shoes untied - stumbles on the trash strewn sidewalk and then, as if it was a most ordinary act,  takes a piss right onto the fire hydrant on the southwest corner of Highland and Melrose. Of the two dozen people hanging out on the corner. not one pays this any attention. 

"Damn, he's a mess," Nancy says standing off above it all. The man with her nods in agreement.

"Well, Nancy," says the little man, "Since you asked to have never been born, I thought it was my duty to show you what would have happened to your friends and co-workers if, indeed, you were never born." 

"Who's those hookers over there?" asks Nancy, eyeing a brown and red-haired Asian woman with the pallor of braised Brussels sprouts, vacant eyes,. bitten-off fingernails, a seductive body set - wobbly - on 6-inch heels and a still-smoking, straight-shooter crack pipe sticking out from her cleavage.  Next to her is a six-foot white girl, thinner than a haricot verte, nibbling with a blank stare on a flageolet bean and wearing tight, dirty once-white dress so small it barely covers her pate de foie gras "Ya know. in a those two remind me of tramp 'ho versions my old Osteria  chef, Liz "Go Go" Hong." and my garde manger Anna.

"That is Liz "Go Go" Hong. That is Anna Nguyen."

"So sad," said Nancy. "What happened to them?"

"It's not what happened to her. It's what didn't happen to her.  You. "

*(If you missed out on the news, Nancy Silverton, distraught over many things including a mysterious mass on her index finger, a pain on the side of her knee, a leaking cappuccino maker and, most distressingly,  the unfathomable horror of repeatedly enduring  the man she lives with not putting the cap back on the toothpaste, pleaded with Zeus and the others of his ilk *(Jesus, Muhammad Ali, Moses, Audrey Hepburn,  Buddha, Roberto Clemente etc...) to have never been born. Now, a wannabe-angel, eager to do some good and earn his wings, has been sent down from the mountains to show Nancy what life in Los Angeles would be like if, indeed, she was never born.

It is shocking to see how the life of this one woman so dramatically changed the course of history in our city .As we catch up with Nancy and her angel-to-be, they are sitting atop the pavilion over pumps #4 and #5 at the Mobil gas station, a falcon's-eye view of the activities going on at the corner of Highland and Melrose, which, in the old "With Nancy" world, was the best corner in America, and now, without her existence, has become a cesspool of depravity, a lingering, wretched stop on the road to nowhere, a city's worth of squalid urban nightmares squished into one foreboding intersection. It has become what is now known the world over as "The Lost Corner".

Another disheveled man appears and grabs Nancy's attention. The guy is yelling at passing cars.

"What's that old, grey-haired guy saying to the cars?"

"Punch lines of bad jokes," said the wannabe angel. "That's Ralph Waxman."

"Tell me he's still not using that joke about the bird that cusses."

"'Fraid so."

Nancy notices a 20-something woman with “wearing” a sandwich board that reads “Who wants to be my friend?”. She pesters every passerby.

“Wait,” Nancy says to the wanna be angel. “Isn’t that Kate Green? She has more friend than anybody.”

“She had more friends than anybody. But, since you never existed, Well, things turned out differently.”

Heading east on Melrose, pushing a shopping cart piled high with T-Shirts with slogans like "My Cousins went to San Bernadino and All I Got Was This Lousy Shirt" is an Asian woman with grey hair and a bright purple jump suit with the "Ross Dress For Less" tags still attached.

"Is that, is that Carly Kim?"

"Yes, that's Carly Kim. Times were hard for her without you spending hundreds of thousands of dollars at her store." 

Kim wheels her cart - which, like most everything on The Lost Corner, is wobbly - past a weary and dazed  young man slumped against the abandoned structure carving up a wood pallet with a butter knife. Within seconds, the pallet is transformed into a salumi board.

"The bum with the little knife. Is that Matt Michaelson?"

"'Fraid so." 

A windblown newspaper tumbles across Melrose and then flutters up above the gas pumps where Nancy and this wannabe angel observe the corner. She looks at the headlines in disbelief. 

"Drug Kingpin Will Simons Arrested in Albuquerque"

"Will broke bad?" Nancy asks.

"Yeah. since there was never a Campanile and Mozza. he didn't get work after he left Valentino so he went home. and fell in with the tweekers."

Nancy stares again at another headline. "L.A. Murder Rate Tops Mogadishu's"

"I thought the homicide rate was going down."

"Well, in the rest of the country it did go down. But, in Los Angeles it soared. They say it's because all those gang members you hired at La Brea Bakery and Mozza went strong to their evil ways since you were never born."

"Ok. And this headline. "LA Ranked Worst in Nation for bread for 25th year in a Row. Worst in pizza, too." 

"You know, without you. the bread scene. well, it never happened. Same thing with pizza."

Nancy reads another headline. "Man Sentenced to Community Service  For Using Burrata On  Grilled Cheese Sandwich."

"Nancy, are you starting to get it?"

Yes, I am. This town is whack without me."

A rare Maserati stretch limo pulls up,  an exquisite  woman exits. and begins handing money to the folks of The Lost Corner. 

"is that who i think it is?".

"Yes that's Alisa Burket, the world-famous concert pianist. She helps these intouchables whenever she's in town." 

"Helen."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing. Look, she walked right by Matt Michaelson like she doesn't even know him." 

"Nancy, how many times do I have to remind you?  Without you, they don't know each other. Like so many couples here. Nick and Katie, AD and Celeste, on and on.  Speaking of couples that would have never got together, look over there."

Walking out of the Yum Yum Donuts, with her Yum Yum Donuts apron on is Dahllia Narvaez, the sous pastry chef there. She's carrying  a bagful of donuts. She gets near The Lost Corner and throws the bag toward the milling, maddening crowd. There's a scramble for the fallen donuts. The largest of them savagely  grabs four donuts. 

"Well," says Nancy, "Chris always did like donuts. At least some things didn't change."

As the scramble for the donuts gets more intense, a LAPD car appears. Two officers exit the cruiser.

"What a minute," says Nancy, "The cops. That's Rebecca and Derek. How did that happen?"

"With the increase in crime, the LAPD took to hiring anybody who applied." 

But, Rebecca and Derek, they look at the corner and shrugged and get back in their vehicle. The Last Corner has no hope.

"Look at that missionary. The one with the sign."

Below is a young pretty woman holding a sign that reads, "Come Let The Mormons Save Your Lost Soul". It's Verona Masongsong.

"Poor thing," says Nancy.

"Yes, Without your guidance, Verona remained lost in the Mormon religion. Alas, she never drank, she never ate Chad's fat. Look. All that booty is gone." 

Amidst all this is a piano that  looks like it survived - barely - the Battle of Leningrad. A man who hasn't been anywhere near running water for a week plomps down on the rickety piano bench. It shatters. Still, he rises, and starts playing the piano. As messed up as that piano is. the song comes through and it fits the corner. "Everything Happens To Me."

"Taylor can still play the piano, at least," Nancy says.

Just then a taco truck pulls to a stop in a two-foot high swath of weeds near the Highland sidewalks.  Only one person approaches the window to order. It's Ryan DeNicola. He looks penny-less.  

"One taco. No filling"

"That will be a nickel," says the order taker, Kate “G” Berg,. “Oh, actually whatever you can afford. We don’t care much anymore about the money I just want to make enough to get high so I can go the Berlin club and , well, none of your goddamn business.”

"Can I pay you next week?"

“G” Berg turns to the taco chef, Joe Tagorda, who says nothing, but puts his head down and starts making a taco.

Forty minutes later, Ryan asks "Where's my taco?"

"We're in the weeds," says G Berg

"No shit, lady."

From above. Nancy and the wannabe angel look on. 

###

"Say, Angel guy, whatever happened to my old boyfriend? Whatever happened to Michael Krikorian?"

"He died years ago."  

The two look on at the scene below for several silent minutes. Finally Nancy turns to this trying-to-become-an-angel chap. 

"So how well are you connected to Zeus and all those others?"

"Not well. Zeus doesn't even know my name. I told you I'm a rookie. Trying to earn my wings."

"I don't believe in fairy tales and all that rigamarolll, but I'm guessing in your line of work. the way to get some of those wings you keeping yapping about is to do something good for mankind. For the city.".  

"Yes, that would get me my wings for sure."

"Well,  then how about i take it back. The part where I say "I wish i was never born." You caught me at a bad moment.  i want to have lived my life just the way I lived it. My successes, my knockdowns, all of it. I want to live my liife,"

"Great. Great. I'll put in  a request right now."

Immediately, lightening  strikes, the thunder roars. the rains pour down. the earth quakes, Lyanka opens a dance studio, Steve Mize's car alarm goes off, Eva knits a three-piece suit, more lightening flashes, Megan falls in love, Verona has a drink, Pilar gets a starring role, Paige's U-turn ticket is voided, Christine wins a cookie shoppe, Lola and her scooter careen off the road but miss a skyscraper, Ralph gets a gig opening for Diana Krall, Arielle sprints by oblivious to the chaos, Tiffany falls in love, Sean gets a part, Zeke senses a screenplay coming on, more thunder, Luis buys a Ferrari, Alfie falls in love, trees topple, Pasty gets a part, a befuddle Derek wakes up in a police car, Lance sells a poster on E-Bay, Dahlia announces she's "sick of donuts, fauxnuts and cronuts," Ricky the waiter falls on the wagon, Alex the manager leaps out of the wagon's way, flowers arrive from Newport, Singapore and Macao, a cocktail shaker rockets out of Jason's grip, the down pour up-shifts to Bangladesh rains. A flood is coming. The Ford van floats away.  The grime is being washed off the Lost Corner. The sun breaks through. 

The Next Morning:  

Nancy Silverton's bed is laid out with her work attire. Marni, Marni Marni. Nancy exits the shower. From downstairs, she hears Thelonious Monk playing "Everything Happens to Me".  It's sad, but very beautiful.

She grabs her Italian toothbrushes and reaches for the toothpaste.

"Michael! Michael!. You did it again!"

No reply, Monk is the only sound from below. Nancy looks at the toothpaste without the cap on, shrugs, and brushes her teeth. 

Five minutes later, in a black Porsche Turbo S, Nancy Silverton is being driven  to Mozza, to the mythical Lost Corner of Highland and Melrose, by Michael Krikorian. On Beverly Boulevard, they get the green light at Rossmore.   

"Listen to this." He puts on a CD . It's Frank Sinatra singing "Nancy With the Laughing Face."

"If I don't see her each day I miss her. Gee, what a thriil it is to kiss her. No angel could ever replace,  Nancy with the laughing face."

The Porsche is floored. The engine roars. The oleanders along Beverly flash by. Whoosh!  It's a wonderful life. 

###

It's a Wonderful Life

Outrage Grows Over Leaked Silverton Tapes, Ban Likely

As the furor mounted over comments Nancy Silverton allegedly made about Mexicans and an lone Armenian, the James Beard Foundation demanded the chef immediately return the prestigious award she won Monday night in New York City.

On a secretly recorded audio tape leaked Monday to the Food Network, Silverton, who was honored a week ago in Lincoln Center as the Best Chef in America, is heard saying “Mexicans are the hardest working people in then entire restaurant world industry". 

That comment and one about not wanting her photo taken with an Armenian man, spawned outrage from across the restaurant world, prompted debate of banning the chef from her own restaurant,  and even triggered protests outside her beloved Mozza.

"What she is basically saying, if it indeed does turn out to be Silverton on those tapes, is that other nationalities, including my own,  don't work as hard as Mexicans and therefore shouldn't be hired," said an outraged Rene Redzepi, chef of Noma, a highly regarded restaurant in Copenhagen. "Is she saying all Danes are lazy? Does MIss Best Chef even know how many times my international staff and I have been bitten by varmints while searching for the tastiest moss?"

In America, the reaction was even harsher.   

"Nancy is a dear friend, but I have to say she stepped in the quick sand this time, " said Jonathan Waxman, who Silverton praised during her Beard acceptance speech. "Look, it's almost universally known when you compliment one nationality, you are really putting down another. It's quite similar to when you see two women and you tell one of them how nice she looks. The other woman will invariably say "What? i don't look good?" With Nancy's Mexican case, you multiply that by a few billion. I really think it over for her. Sad. I love that woman."

A Los Angeles chef who lost out in the best chef in America contest would not comment on Silverton's predicament. However, like Silverton, Suzanne Goin, unaware a nearby microphone was on, was overheard saying "Great. With Nancy out of the competition, maybe I can finally win this damn award."     

Some of those who work closest with the chef appeared to be turning against her. 

"Maybe if I changed my fuckin' name to Kate Gonzalez she would have thanked me in her James Beard award acceptance speech," said Kate Green, Silverton's black/white assistant. "I love Nancy, but I think she's gone brazy. She makes it seem that those sombreros are the only people who can work hard."

Monday night, just before evening service, in a silent protest, the three head chefs of Pizzeria, Osteria and Chi Spacca: LIz "Go Go" Hong; Chad "Willy Wonka" Colby; and Derek "The Wreck" McCabe, none of whom are Mexican, went to the middle of the Melrose and HIghland intersection and turned their Mozza chefs coats inside out so it looked as they though they worked at "azzoM".

At the pizzeria, host Lance Ohnstad, a Silverton admirer, joined in the protest in his own way. Since the tape was leaked, Ohnstad's reply to the oft-asked question "Is this the pizzeria or osteria?" is now  "It's the taqueria."

It remains a mystery as to who leaked the tape to the Food Network.  The voice Silverton is talking to on the tape is that of Michael Krikorian who has fervently denied leaking them. His credibility was bolstered today when a restaurant insider said, "If he sold the tapes to Food Network he would have some money. But, he's as broke as ever."  Krikorian is the man Silverton referred to when she is heard say "I don't want any more selfy-plus-ones with you, Armenian."

At the Pizzeria. long-time customer Lonnie Bishop, aka "The Prince of Pumps", joined those outraged by Silveton's comments. "She is gong to have to give up the restaurant."

About the only one coming to Silverton's side was another controversial chef, Dominque Crenn from San Francisco. "Nancy is the best and Nancy is right. Like she said in her beautiful acceptance speech, she knows how to select the best team. i'm not sure about her choice of men. but her choice of a restaurant team is peerless." 

Monday afternoon, a reporter stumbled upon Silverton as she was leaving the Marni store on Melrose Place. He asked her if she would return the James Beard Award. 

"If they really want it back, they can have it. Problem is I'm not sure where I put it."

Then the reporter asked Nancy Silverton what she would do if the outrage reached a point where she would have to leave her restaurant.

In a style all her own, she answered, "Mario and Joe would never let that happen. But, hey, if that ever does happen, well, I'll deal with it. Don't worry about me. I've lost it all before. In a way, it makes life interesting. A real challenge. I've been knocked down and I always get back up. I'll think of something new."

She slide into her black Porsche 918, revved the mighty 887-horsepower motor, and said "And you can bet this If I ever do open a new place, I'll hire a lot of Mexicans. And maybe even an Armenian."

Silverton roared off. Toward Mozza, no doubt.